[Exeunt Attendants.]

ARTHUR.
Alas, I then have chid away my friend!
He hath a stern look but a gentle heart:--
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

HUBERT.
Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTHUR.
Is there no remedy?

HUBERT.
None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTHUR.
O heaven!--that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

HUBERT.
Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

ARTHUR.
Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues